


The Heavy Crown

by orphan_account



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Funeral, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, King Loki, Loki Feels, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Explicit, Panic Attacks, Sibling Incest, Slash, Thor Feels, reposted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 00:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11070597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Odin is dead. Loki must take up the mantle of King even as war threatens Asgard, Thor remains bereft of both Mjolnir and his immortality, and stress coupled with the knowledge of his heritage drives Loki to the brink.





	The Heavy Crown

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and published this back in 2013 but took it down after going through a difficult period in my life. This was always one of my personal favorites though, so I'm posting it again with a few minor grammatical improvements. I'm terribly sorry for deleting it in the first place <3
> 
> Pure, unapologetic angst and hurt/comfort that takes place just after Thor raids the S.H.I.E.L.D. compound in the first film. Mentions of past and current Thor/Loki but nothing explicit, and a very brief blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment of Thor/Jane.
> 
> Please enjoy!

“Don’t go anywhere.”

Thor watched with hollow eyes as the son of Coul left the room, the reflective door sliding smoothly back into place behind him. He looked down at his bound hands, feeling a lead weight shift in his stomach.

Sighing wearily, Thor allowed his chin to drop to his chest in an effort to alleviate the ache in his neck. He felt a momentary flash of frustration, furious at the weakness of his now mortal body. He also felt a touch of fear; now Thor was _expendable_. Easily broken, slower to mend... sluggishly expiring where he sat, his internal clock ticking down the moments until his demise.

Did Father intend for him to perish here? To die, not in battle as Thor, the God of Thunder, but as Thor the pathetic, feeble mortal? Was he to be forever barred from the golden halls of Valhalla, denied glory in death as well as in life?

He gritted his teeth, shifting in his seat. They’d bound him to a metal chair, cuffs holding his wrists together in his lap and that damnable, thrice-cursed velcro tying his ankles to the legs of the unforgiving furniture.

Thor felt bruises forming where he’d sustained blows during his fight inside the compound. Though he was a mortal now, he still possessed centuries of experience in battle and had hardly reacted to his injuries in the moments when he’d sustained them. But now, with the adrenaline dissolving in his bloodstream and his rage fading away, he was made painfully aware of the damage his mortal body withstood.

He was fairly certain one of his ribs had cracked, and his knees ached _fiercely_. His head throbbed from the blow he’d been given at the base of his skull, courtesy of that large mortal he’d fought at the end, and a cut above his cheekbone stung. But the most horrible wound Thor sustained had been the knife to his pride.

Mjölnir was lost to him. She refused to heed his call, deemed him unworthy to lift her from her muddy pedestal. He could no longer hear her echo, a slow thrum that Thor had grown accustomed to—he welcomed the sound just as he would his own heartbeat. But now the hammer was silent, all but dead to him, and he fancied the rain still pouring outside was a reflection of her tears.

He jumped, feeling the ghost of a touch against his shoulder. Thor looked around wildly, and out of the corner of his vision he spied a shadow standing behind him.

“Loki...” he breathed, eyes widening, his neck straining with effort.

As if sensing Thor’s discomfort, the trickster himself moved to stand before him. Clad in a dark Midgardian suit and scarf, he looked drastically different to Thor’s eyes. His brother appeared fatigued—exhausted, in fact—and his dark hair was in uncharacteristic disarray. Yet he was no less imposing as he presented himself for the thunderer’s inspection, waiting patiently as Thor tried to find his voice.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, blinking away his surprise with some difficulty.

Loki offered him a smile, but it was bitter. “I had to see you.”

Thor’s eyebrows pulled together and he leaned forward as far as the restraints would allow him to move. “What happened?” Something about Loki’s expression, the tight set of his shoulders, sent a jolt of dread through his gut. “Tell me, is it Jötunheim? Let me explain to Father—”

“Father is dead.”

Thor reeled as if slapped, lips parting in confusion. The meaning of Loki’s words barely registered, for Thor’s mind was suddenly stuffed with cotton. A dull ringing filled his ears and his breathing hitched as a hollow, cold feeling wrapped itself around his heart. _Dead. Gone... dead—Father... Father is... dead. Father is dead. No—no no no-..._

“Wh-what?” he stuttered brokenly.

Loki’s eyes closed briefly, looking far less composed than Thor had ever seen him before. “Your banishment, the threat of a new war... my...”

The god’s head jerked, an abortive shake that seemed almost mechanical. When he opened his eyes, his gaze was pained.

“He collapsed, avoided the Odinsleep for too long. The healers could not wake him. I’m sorry. Thor, I- I am so sorry...” he implored, a desperate whisper that pleaded with the thunderer to understand. “This- none of this would have happened if... if I hadn’t—”

Thor had never seen Loki so distraught. He muscled his way through the pain of loss and grief blooming in his chest, fighting back his distress. “No, no brother— _I_ am sorry. This was my fault, for journeying to Jötunheim...”

“Imbecile,” Loki muttered, pressing his fingers to his eyelids as he turned away. “You do not understand—you _never_ realized...”

He took a deep breath, visibly burying his grief and steeling himself. Thor selfishly wished for the self-control to do the same.

“The burden of the throne has fallen to me now.”

He looked upon his younger brother’s expression, Thor's devastated gaze turned beseeching as he entreated, “Can—can I come home?”

Loki’s lips pressed together tightly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed around the lump that had manifested. Thor found himself equal parts shocked and relieved upon hearing Loki’s answer.

“Yes.”

The thunderer offered a choked ‘thank you’, watching helplessly as Loki bent down to remove the bindings. He noted the way Loki’s fingers trembled faintly as they peeled apart the velcro and the tight set of his jaw as he shattered the metal cuffs on Thor’s wrists with a weary tug.

“Something else has happened.” It wasn’t a question.

Loki paused, surprise and hesitation warring across his expression before he schooled his features into well-practiced impassivity. “Do not concern yourself. It is nothing.”

He startled Thor and halted any further inquiries by extending his hand to rest against the underside of the thunderer’s ribs, pressing tenderly against the fractured bone. A gentle wave of seiðr sunk into Thor’s side, mending the fracture painlessly and efficiently. Loki withdrew his hand briefly, only to raise his fingers to Thor’s face. The long digits brushed the skin of Thor’s cheekbone and a strange, warming sensation that he had come to associate with Loki’s magic tickled the wounded flesh. He did not need to look to know that the cut under his eye had been mended.

As Loki moved to pull his fingers away, Thor reach up to grip his brother’s hand, ignoring the mystified emotion that flickered behind his green eyes.

“Thank you for coming to find me,” Thor whispered fiercely, holding the trickster’s gaze. “You had every right to leave me in this realm to rot, after everything that I have done, but you did not. I know not what I have done to deserve your kindness, but I—”

He was silenced by the fingers of Loki’s free hand moving across his mouth, his brother’s thumb brushing small flecks of dried blood from the crest of Thor’s lower lip.

“How did this happen?” he questioned with a small frown.

Flushed, Thor answered. “I unintentionally bit my tongue after one of the mortals struck a blow to the underside of my jaw. It is nothing, truly—“

His assurances were cut off with a muffled noise, blue eyes widening as a slender thumb—slightly callused at the tip from centuries of practice with sorcery—pressed between Thor’s lips. He held still and stared up at Loki’s face with bewilderment, watching a faint crease appear between his brother’s eyebrows. His thumb swiped gently across Thor’s tongue, sending the faintest tingles of healing seiðr along the throbbing muscle.

Loki made a quiet sound of exasperation. “You nearly bit clean through...” His thumb rubbed soothing circles along the surface of Thor’s slick tongue, which trembled under the god’s ministrations. The action was strangely erotic, and memories of simpler times and warm bodies intertwined leaping unbidden to the forefront of Thor’s mind, recollections of nights where those same callused fingertips traced hot trails along his skin...

The trickster frowned slightly, feeling the tremors beneath his thumb. “Am I causing you pain?”

Thor looked surprised Loki would ask and shook his head minutely, pressing his tongue insistently against the pad of his brother’s finger, seeking more of the restorative seiðr. Loki’s lips quirked faintly at the action, the smirk disappearing just as soon as it arrived, and Thor felt the unconscious desire to kiss those lips and coax a smile to their corners once more. He refrained however, and after a moment, the motion of Loki’s finger continued, healing the rest of the bite and soothing the inflammation.

All too soon Loki’s thumb withdrew from Thor’s lips, even as the thunderer’s tongue reflexively followed its retreat. The god’s eyes flashed briefly, but he pretended not to notice and instead straightened, helping Thor to stand and work the circulation back into his legs. He inspected the blond man more carefully as he did this, eyes narrowing further with each bruise his gaze encountered.

“You look as if you’ve fought two dozen giants bare-handed,” Loki observed, allowing no hint of the dark, protective rage that brewed behind his eyes to escape through his words.

Thor flushed under his beard, avoiding his brother’s eyes. “It certainly feels like it,” he admitted reluctantly, tensed as if expecting ridicule.

Pursing his lips, Loki surprised Thor by offering no scorn, only conjuring a jacket to wrap over the thunderer’s shoulders. “It is raining. You will be prone to sickness as a mortal,” he offered by way of explanation. “I have never been able to heal the human cold.”

“Truly?” Thor asked, startled. “I was under the impression that you could heal nearly anything.”

Loki glanced sharply at him, as if trying to see if Thor was mocking him. It appeared he was satisfied by what he found, as the sudden stiffening of his shoulders relaxed. “No. Not everything.” Thor heard the unspoken words as clearly as if they had been voiced, and winced.

_Not death._

_Not Father._

Loki turned to open the reflective door and step through to the room beyond. Thor followed hesitantly, looking about warily to see if any of the mortals noticed his departure. It seemed as if his fears were unfounded, as no eyes turned to look at them. They were as intangible and invisible as spectres, unseen and unheard.

“How did you find me?” Thor questioned, now that he was certain they would not be caught should he decide to speak.

Loki frowned, glancing at Thor over his shoulder. “Hliðskjálf,” he told him, as if it were obvious, and Thor thought he caught his brother give a small flinch at his own words. Thor found himself sympathizing.

The throne. Of course.

He allowed Loki to lead them through, glancing at one of the monitors being watched by a seated S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Several views of the compound were displayed, including the room where Thor had been imprisoned. His eyebrows rose upon seeing himself seated and bound to the chair, hunched over with a stony expression. His image’s foot tapped occasionally, shoulders rolling in an effort to stretch. An illusion, he realized.

He heard Loki sigh impatiently and pulled himself away from the screen, moving with a wide berth around an approaching agent. Loki waited for him just inside the entrance to the white, rounded tunnels, offering no reproach for Thor’s tardiness when the man stood by his side once more.

“Is there anything you need to gather before we depart?”

Thor thought for a moment. He hadn’t brought anything with him, and owned no material possessions in that mortal realm, save for Mjölnir. And yet...

_Lady Jane’s research_.

“A journal. Leather-bound and well used. It is a friend’s,” he explained at Loki’s raised eyebrow.

“Very well.” Loki spun around, navigating the tunnels to find the exit.

“What about Mjölnir?” he couldn’t help but ask after his brother’s retreating form. “The mortals would... dissect her, and she does not answer my call.”

He could clearly imagine Loki rolling his eyes, though he could not see his brother’s expression. “She is as we are now—unseen and unable to be touched or detected by the mortals’ sensors. Or did you think that I would allow one of the most powerful arcane weapons in existence to be prodded and studied by beings unworthy to look upon her splendor?”

Thor swallowed and nodded, muttering a quick apology as he followed the trickster without further protest. He wondered if Loki had chosen his words deliberately, and then scolded himself for wondering in the first place. He had earned the veiled insult and much more, and counted himself lucky that his brother’s quicksilver tongue hadn’t unleashed more of its barbs upon him that night. He would have deserved it.

_Beings unworthy to look upon her splendor._

_Not worthy._

_Never again_.

Ignoring the painful ache in his breast, he pushed those thoughts away. They would only lead to self-pity, and Thor had indulged that particular emotion quite enough that evening.

It was indeed raining as they left the compound, the droplets falling more gently than they had during Thor’s brash venture earlier. It was still muddy, the ground making a valiant effort to yank his shoes off with each step, but he pressed on with little care for the moist earth clinging to his clothes. He spied the journal sitting under a canopy-covered table and swiped it from the pile to tuck it in his coat, hidden safely away from the freezing rain.

Loki watched him impassively, giving no reaction to the droplets soaking his expensive suit and slicked hair.

“You will be wanting to return that to her, I presume?” Thor did not bother asking how Loki knew Jane’s gender.

He nodded. “Yes. There is a town, fifty miles east—”

The god offered his arm and Thor grasped it immediately, falling silent. The world around them faded, twisting upon itself and turning inside-out. Their surroundings became nothing more than grayed outlines, shades without color. It was a silent world, without sound or scent, and he allowed Loki to lead him through the hidden plane as the landscape became nothing more than a blur.

The world righted itself within seconds, color and textures returning with the other senses as Thor regained his bearings. He felt far more disoriented than he ought to, recalling from the past few times he’d experienced travel through the secret paths that the dizziness _should_ have dissipated almost as soon as they returned to the physical plane.

Yet this time was different, and Thor was once more reminded of the shortcomings and fragility of his mortal form. He noted Loki’s gaze upon him and made an effort to shake away the uncomfortable sensations. The darkness of the evening was broken by the electrical lights outside each building and those hanging from streetlamps, and it took a moment to realize where in Puente Antiguo they were. Everything looked much different during the night. The diner, he could see, was closed—if the glowing neon sign was anything to go by—but it appeared a Midgardian tavern less than a block away was bustling with humans.

He looked around them, spotting Jane, Erik, and Darcy’s lab down the road a ways and began walking towards it. The lights inside were extinguished, including the upper floor, but parked a little ways off was a trailer, a warm glow shining through the curtained windows.

Thor glanced towards Loki for confirmation that the magic hiding them had been removed before knocking sharply on the door.

There came a rustle from inside, what sounded rather like the muffled thump of a blanket, and then the door opened, revealing Jane’s dimpled smile.

“Thor? Oh, thank god you’re safe!” she exclaimed, visibly relieved.

He nodded gently. “It is good to see that you escaped soundly. I was worried you had been discovered.”

“What? Oh, no, I was fine.” She flushed, looking suddenly ashamed. “I—I had Erik pick me up, about a mile from S.H.I.E.L.D. I’m sorry, I never should have left you, I just...” She took a deep breath, starting again. “How did you get here? You must’ve been walking for hours—“

Thor shook his head. “Not exactly. Jane, I’d like to introduce—” he turned around, falling silent when he did not see Loki anywhere behind him.

“You must be exhausted. And freezing! Where’d you find that coat?”

“Ah...” he couldn’t think of an appropriate explanation that did not include Loki—who apparently did not wish to be seen—or stealing, so he changed the subject. “I have something that belongs to you.”

Jane blinked, confused. “What is it? I- _oh my god_ , you found it!”

She took her journal from Thor’s hand, gaping in delight as she cradled it in her palm, running her fingers tenderly along the worn binding.

“I- I don’t know what to say... I... thank you!” she whispered, gratitude shining on her face. “I won’t have to start over from scratch now!”

Her beaming smile was infectious, and Thor found his own lips quirking in response. The grin slipped as he felt a hot puff of air beside his right ear and a soft voice that sent gooseflesh blossoming over his skin.

“Speak your farewells and be done,” Loki breathed in an unnecessarily low murmur. “I’d like to reach our destination _before_ sunrise.”

Thor sighed, nodding and ignoring Jane’s perplexed look. “Lady Jane, you have my sincerest apologies, but I must go.”

“Go?” she repeated, visibly crestfallen. “I don’t understand...”

He winced, hating the disappointment shining behind her large eyes. “I must leave tonight. S.H.I.E.L.D., they will be searching for me.” Thor wasn’t the greatest liar and never had been—both friends and enemies in his past had easily been able to see through the false words that fell from his lips—but Jane accepted his excuse without protest, sorrowful but trusting.

“Oh... yes.” She frowned, looking away with a small nod. “Right.”

“I am sorry,” Thor apologized once more. He grasped her hand, lifting her fingers to press a chaste kiss to the back of her palm. She predictably blushed, looking a bit less upset.

“Then this is goodbye.” she sighed, then asked hopefully, “Will I see you again?”

Thor struggled for an appropriate reply, not entirely certain himself. Would he? Loki would be bringing him back to Asgard, mortal form or not, and while Thor had every confidence that his brother would find a way around Odin’s enchantment, it could take months, _years_ even. By then he would be little else than a foggy memory to Jane, nothing more than another face associated with a few brief—if perhaps odd—days in her life.

“I do not know,” he confessed truthfully. Jane looked saddened at his reply, but understanding, and unexpectedly wrapped her arms around Thor’s middle in a warm embrace. He heard the air beside him whoosh as Loki moved swiftly out of the way, the firm presence only Thor could feel at his side disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived. Warm, plump lips pressed against his own, and Thor groaned in despair knowing that his brother—his past _lover—_ stood mere feet away.

She interpreted his groan in an entirely different manner, and bravely slipped her tongue between Thor’s frozen lips in a slightly deeper kiss. He flushed with mortification, trying desperately to think of a polite way to pull back over the pleasant haze that was settling over his senses, and came up with nothing. A kiss was a kiss, and while Jane was a mere mortal, an amateur in the realm of lip locks and dancing tongues, Thor would be lying to himself if he said he did not find it at least a _little bit_ enjoyable.

The choice was taken from him as long fingers snatched the back of his coat in a serpent-quick motion, pulling Thor bodily away from Jane’s embrace. She looked surprised and perplexed, and Thor waved helplessly in farewell as he stumbled away, trying desperately not to trip. Nörns, when had Loki become so _strong—_?

The last glimpse he caught of Jane was of her baffled expression and hand waving hesitantly in return, before the shadows enveloped him and he was once more flitted across the hidden plane.

They were moving too quickly for Thor to see, to think, to do much more than hold on through the chaotic, silent maelstrom of blurred grays. He could hardly draw breath to speak, to shout to his brother that it was too fast, too much, he could not—

It felt as if several torturous hours had passed, though in actuality it was only a brief moment. When they landed Thor collapsed bonelessly to his hands and knees as the world returned to rights. His vision was splotchy and his breathing heavy, heart pounding painfully in his chest.

A distant part of his mind registered the softness of a thick rug beneath him and the warm, still air of an undisturbed room chasing the chill from his bones. He dared not raise his gaze to look around for fear that the bile churning in his stomach would make a swift and unpleasant exit. Thor groaned, feeling the world tip over, and resigned himself to laying sprawled on his back until his senses returned.

Thor heard a quiet sigh over the ringing in his ears, and hands that had taken more lives and cast more spells than Thor could hope to count dipped beneath his shoulders and behind his knees, lifting him easily from the ground. His senses were returning from the foggy, painful haze they’d fled to after returning to the physical world, but it was slow going. Thor felt reasonably sure that any protest he might have given at being carried like a maiden would only translate into a disoriented groan.

The smell of ancient tomes and crisp parchment managed to penetrate the fog blanketing his senses, ink and spices and the bittersweet tang of magic quickly becoming known to him. He was placed upon something soft and comfortable _—a bed_ , part of his mind supplied helpfully _—_ and the same hands that had lifted him were now removing his muddy, borrowed shoes and breeches, tugging the rain-soaked coat off his shoulders and peeling away the shirt underneath. He was left in his smallclothes and nothing else, and as the hands moved away and footsteps faded into another room he took the liberty of blinking away his dizziness to look around.

Thor would be able to recognize Loki’s chambers anywhere _—_ by smell alone, even. The gilded, thick walls were covered in heavy tapestries and curtains where they were not hidden behind deep, tall bookshelves filled to the brim with scrolls, grimoires, and ancient leather-bound tomes that Thor had never dared touch for fear their age would cause them to crumble beneath his fingertips. The chambers were spacious, lavishly decorated and dimly lit _,_ as opposed to Thor’s rather spartan and bright rooms. The color scheme had always reminded Thor of the deepest forests in Vanaheim, or perhaps the Ironwood _—_ he’d never been able to decide.

Everything seemed somehow larger, more foreboding and dangerous, and Thor wondered if that was simply due to the contrast between Midgard and this place, or if somehow his mortal form could sense the magic thrumming behind every object, every piece of furniture and parchment. He pondered that perhaps years of being in Loki’s presence, of belonging to the seiðmaðr, had caused the chambers to absorb some of his heady, intoxicating power. Thor had certainly never noticed it before, but with the acute absence of his own power, he felt every invisible caress of magic like a spark against his skin.

Thor was now fully aware, only the faintest lingering touch of disorientation and nausea clinging to his body. He wondered where Loki had gone off to; the absence of his presence was like an ache, an itch under his skin that Thor felt a desperate urge to relieve. Suddenly his home, his world, the Tree itself, seemed infinitely more dangerous, and Thor had the foolish urge to cling to Loki’s side and never leave again _—_ at least not until he had regained his immortality.

The gilded doors to the bath chamber opened, allowing Thor a glimpse of faint wafts of steam coming from within, though none of the moisture could escape into the bed chamber, an invisible ward dutifully keeping the vapor away from Loki’s precious books and scrolls.

Loki exited the chamber, clad once more in full Æsir regalia _—_ his ceremonial armor, Thor noted, though lacking the horned helm. The presence of Gungnir at Loki’s side was like a painful knife to Thor’s gut, and he couldn’t help but notice the way Loki held the spear as if it were some foreign, dangerous beast that might bite him at any moment.

“You will wish to bathe, I’m sure,” Loki told him, and Thor wasn’t entirely sure if it was a suggestion or a command.

“Will you not join me?” he asked hopefully. He didn’t want Loki to go, to leave him alone to his thoughts and the grief that bubbled just under the surface.

He could have sworn he saw a brief flash of pity and longing in his brother’s gaze before it quickly vanished. “I have business I must attend to.” It was an apology, a regretful one.

Thor dipped his head in acknowledgment, ignoring the selfish pang of disappointment he felt at his brother’s words. Loki had duties _—_ of course he did. It would be nothing less than greedy of Thor to ask Loki to abandon them, simply to cater to his elder brother’s whims.

“None have yet been made aware of your arrival. It would be best if you remained here until I have notified the guard... and Mother.”

Thor nodded once more in agreement. Asgard believed him still to be exiled. Even if he were recognized without his armor and Mjölnir, Thor was certain he’d be seen as an imposter, an enemy wearing his face (it had happened in the past, though not involving himself). The royal guard had a tendency to attack first and ask questions later, and one blow from a spear could very likely kill him in this form.

He was going to be awfully bored, however.

“I will not leave until you grant me permission to do so,” Thor promised, putting forth his best effort to hide the bitterness that sought to saturate his words. By the expression Loki gave him, he could tell that his brother had not been fooled.

The mischievous god sighed, fingers tightening around Gungnir. “I will return as soon as I am able.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Thor could think of nothing else to say beyond those few words, and he did not wish to keep Loki from his duties. _As King._ By the Tree, did that make his brother the new Allfather?

“Was there a coronation?” Thor asked, before he could stop himself. Loki had stopped in his journey towards the door, hand outstretched towards the handle.

“...no. There was not. Regencies are not acknowledged in the same manner as permanent rule, if you’ll recall.” He gave Thor a bitter, twisted smile. “Fear not, Asgard will have its rightful king upon your return to immortality.”

Thor’s eyes widened in shock, hastily willing his tongue to cooperate as Loki turned abruptly and left his chambers.

_Damn it..._

Thor sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his mud-crusted hair. What did he mean by that, Asgard’s rightful king? Surely Loki did not think that he had any less claim to the throne than Thor? By law, Loki had just as much right to the mantle of ruler as Thor would have before his banishment. Surely his brother did not believe he made a lesser king than Thor himself would...?

He groaned and buried his face in his hands, forcing his mind to cease pondering over what-ifs and focus. He needed a bath and he needed to sleep. Perhaps, when he woke up, everything that had happened the past few days would amount to nothing more than a horrid dream.

Sighing, Thor stood and made his way to the bathing chamber.

* * *

As soon as Loki heard the door to his chambers shut he leaned against the wall with a weary exhale, momentarily releasing Gungnir to run his fingers through his hair. It was growing long again and started to flare wildly at the tips, and Loki mused that not too long ago he would have actually given a damn.

He wondered if his hair was attempting to reflect his frazzled emotional state. Much like the weather would shift to mirror notably intense emotions in Thor, Loki’s magic and inherent shape-changing abilities would echo his own as well. He’d never experienced it manifesting quite so visibly _—_ normally only the shade of his irises would shift, and he had soon learned to control that reaction at an early age; one could not hide their emotions and lie effectively if their eyes constantly betrayed them, after all.

And now his hair saw fit to give him away. It was almost enough to make Loki summon his helmet, but the notion was quickly dismissed. The damn thing was heavy and tight, and Loki was not eager to fan the flames of his migraine any further that evening.

He needed to continue overseeing funeral preparations. The boat and pyre would be extravagant, nothing less than what Asgard’s glorious ruler and Allfather deserved. Items of personal worth and importance were being gathered to burn with Od-... with the body when the time came.

The war with Jötunheim was an urgent, pressing concern as well. Battle plans needed to be drawn, armies readied, and allies made aware. Vanaheim, Ālfheim, and Niðavellir had sworn fealty to Asgard after the Æsir–Vanir War, and as such they were oath-bound to send troops to aid Asgard’s formidable forces. Loki was no fool, however _—_ there would be a great deal of friction he’d need to soothe, laws and political treatises he’d need to look over again to ensure that there were no loopholes that others could exploit and use against him.

And then there was Asgard. He’d be a fool to believe that there would not be trouble in the golden realm as well. No doubt the majority of Asgard was certain he’d schemed his way to the throne, maliciously engineered Odin’s death and planned Thor’s banishment. The Æsir swore loyalty to the crown of Asgard, but it was a flimsy assurance at best. There would be those who would say that Loki’s claim to the throne was illegitimate and therefore did not merit true loyalty. There would be many who would protest _—_ perhaps even violently _—_ to a seiðmaðr ruling from Hliðskjálf, where a warrior-king ought to be sat. And if word of his Jötunn heritage escaped...

He never, _ever_ coveted the throne. It would always be Thor _’_ s _—had always belonged_ to his brother, in Loki’s mind. He’d been jealous of the attention Thor received as crown prince and future king, yes, but had never been so foolish as to wish he possessed the title for himself. It was difficult enough being a sorcerer among warriors, a brilliant mind among dullards, a solitary creature and a silver-tongued manipulator in the face of shield-siblings and blunt raucousness; and now he was a Jötunn among Æsir, the cherry on top of his depraved sundae.

No, he’d ceased wishing for the throne very early on and had never felt the desire return. It was Thor’s, it had always been Thor’s, and now Loki found himself _desperately_ wishing it were his brother in his place. In a preferable world, Thor would take to the mantle of leadership with the same ease to which he approached and conquered every other problem he was faced with. And should he falter, Loki would be there to lift him back up, would be the one pulling his brother’s strings from the background and ensuring that the well-meaning but naive warrior did not lead the Nine Realms to ruin, allowing Loki to exist without nearly so much pressure on his own shoulders. But now Thor was a mortal _—_ expendable, fragile, and unable to claim his birthright.

Loki pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes, ignoring the explosion of stars and pain behind his closed eyelids as he took a deep, ragged breath. Everything had gone so horrendously _wrong_ , and Loki felt utterly powerless in the face of this living nightmare.

_Deep breaths. I need to find Frigga and explain Thor’s situation. One disaster at a time,_ he reminded himself in a mental voice uncannily similar to his mother’s, fighting his way through the torrent of conflicting emotions and grief bubbling up inside him. Loki had always been seven moves ahead of everyone else, ahead of the tide and dancing along the edge of the cliff. Yet now he felt as if he were limping behind, caught up in some powerful, all-encompassing wave of force and he was drowning and there was no way to fight the current as it consumed him and he just wanted to _escape_...

He wasn’t sure whether it was laughter or tears forming the lump in his throat, despair or panic causing his heart to stutter and muscles tense. It was absurd, really _—_ as King of Asgard, Loki was essentially the most powerful man in the Nine Realms, and yet he had never felt so _weak_. The indescribable need to slide to the floor and curl up gripped him tightly, but he fought the urge as another wave of hysteria crashed over him. He couldn’t afford to display his weakness, not here, not now, not when the eyes of Asgard pierced him with their savage, damning gazes, just waiting for him to fall...

Loki groaned through clenched teeth, wishing he could throttle himself. He was _better_ than this, damn it! Stronger than the maelstrom that fought to swallow him! He had to be... for there was no other option.

_Find Frigga,_ he repeated to himself in a mantra, willing his legs to carry him away from the wall and not crumple underneath him. _Find Mother._

* * *

Thor spent several hours soaking in the baths, allowing the never-cooling hot water to ease the ache in his muscles. His skin had tingled faintly, the sensation growing the longer he stayed submerged to his chin, and Thor was certain Loki had added some oil to the water to alleviate the pain that bloomed from the bruises on his flesh.

The blues and blacks and yellows were fading, the largest splotches having been reduced almost to nothing and the lesser marks vanished completely by the time he removed himself from the steaming water. He was entirely clean and grateful for it, the mud and dried blood scrubbed away and the strange, unnatural floral scent that clung to his skin after wearing the borrowed Midgardian clothes had disappeared entirely.

He claimed the bathrobe that lay folded on the gilded edge of the sunken tub, fastening it haphazardly before shuffling back towards Loki’s bed chamber. He was relaxed and tired, and intent upon making it to the covers before exhaustion claimed him. He hadn’t slept since the night before his coronation, and he’d been a mortal for half of the time that had passed since. Rest was all he could think of, and it was with a great sigh of relief that he collapsed atop the bedspread and let sleep take him.

* * *

The hysteria that had threatened to grip Loki all evening was steadily climbing—rising like some great beast intent upon consuming his sanity. He considered it a marked achievement that he had not yet collapsed, or lashed out, or broken down completely as he fulfilled his duties.

He kept his mask in place through sheer force of will, and he felt it a miracle that he’d managed to fool Frigga—so absorbed was she in her grief that she did not notice the quickly deteriorating hold Loki had on his emotions. It was almost too good to be true, for his mother had oft been able to read her son like a book, breaking through every mask and wall he had in place to see his core. It was unsettling at times, and Loki thanked the Nörns, the Tree, the whole damn _Forest_ that she did not see through him that day.

Loki could scarcely hear through the thundering in his ears as she thanked him for retrieving Thor, and explained that she would wait until her eldest son had rested enough and settled before going to see him. He all but fled when she dismissed him, after she placed her hand briefly upon his cheek in a way that nearly had his composure shattering into a thousand irreparable pieces.

There was a war council, and Loki felt very detached from it all as he listened to Jarls bicker and warriors demand things of him—more troops, more weapons, more supplies and more healing stones for the soldiers under their leadership. The suspicion in their eyes—bordering on downright revulsion and distrust from Tyr—only served to fuel his migraine and the panic crawling just beneath his skin. It seemed as if all of Loki’s energy went to remaining outwardly calm, clear-headed, and his usual clever self in the face of these blood-thirsty wolves who sought to devour him like he was some lost, weak, horribly _alone_ and _terrified_ lamb.

He went to check preparations for Odin’s funeral ship and pyre, fighting and losing against the grief that sunk its teeth into his throat. Eir tracked him down then, asking for his aid in lending power to the preservation spells being renewed on Odin’s body, for they were being difficult and Loki was the most powerful seiðmaðr in Asgard, and normally she would ask Frigga but she did not wish to bring any further grief upon the Queen.

But he couldn’t refuse because he was King and he would not appear weak, would not show hesitation or fear or revulsion or mind-numbing grief even when her request made him want to vomit, to toss Gungnir to the ground and charge the gates of Valhalla, begging Odin to return, to fix things, to make everything _better_ and _right_ and remove this crushing weight from his shoulders. Loki wanted to scream at her, to rage and sob and throw both Eir and himself off the edge of the Bifröst because how could she think the sight of Odin’s body would be any more bearable for _him_ than it would be Frigga? How could she ask this of him? How did she—why would she—...

In the end Loki nodded, following the goddess of healing with an impassive expression and hair with wild, dangerous spikes at the tips. He stared at the Allfather’s body blankly and added his power to the healer’s, incanting hollowly. He all but ripped himself away when it was finished, swallowing bile and tears as he fled mindlessly to one of the garden balconies—possessing _just_ enough coherency to cast a privacy enchantment before collapsed behind a massive shrub as he dry retched into a flower bed.

_I cannot do this... I cannot do this... I cannot... I-... I can’t..._

He wasn’t sure how long he remained kneeling in the bushes, trembling like a leaf as he struggled to hear his own thoughts over the thundering ringing in his ears and the heartbeat that seemed to rattle him with every painful thump. His migraine had grown to agonizing proportions, grief and hysteria choking the life from him like a noose.

Loki acted out of pure instinct, wrapping magic and shadow around him like a cloak as he stumbled mindlessly through the hidden paths, using magic more than strength to propel him through the soundless gray world. He landed in an undignified heap on the floor of his chambers, Gungnir rolling across the ground and hitting the wall with a dull thud. His vision tunneled as he half-crawled to the bed, relying on memory and hearing alone to guide his shaking limbs towards the thunderous snoring coming from the sheets. The act of climbing onto the covers and magicking away his armor was almost subconscious on his part, and distantly he heard someone—himself?—choking for breath.

The god grasped frantically with one hand, fingers latching like a vice around his brother’s wrist while the man continued to sleep. His chest was constricting, dotted vision spinning as he yanked Thor’s hand mindlessly over his racing heart, using the warm limb to anchor himself as he concentrated on the sole task of breathing, willing oxygen to break through his disorienting panic. Loki felt inordinately lucky that Thor was a deep sleeper, even more so as a mortal it seemed, for surely the brash warrior would be no help in calming him down, and the thunderer’s snoring was yet another means of grounding himself in what Loki had begun to dazedly realize was some sort of attack.

_I’m dying. I must be dying._

He clutched the slumbering man’s fingers so tightly it was a wonder they did not break from the crushing strength. In the midst of his hysteria, Loki willed his heartbeat to mimic the steady, relaxed rhythm he felt in the fingertips pressed atop his chest, willed the painful, stuttering beat to calm before it broke his ribs with the force. He concentrated on matching his breathing to Thor’s, desperate to feel as if he weren’t hyperventilating, practically choking on his own air. Grief and panic made it difficult to breathe, and he fought desperately to stay conscious as he grew light-headed.

Desperation raked at his limbs, forcing him to lay nearer to the warrior beside him in a mindless panic—a need for a steadier anchor. He scrambled in a frenzy to lay closer to the god-turned-mortal, pressing his head against Thor’s muscular chest as he clutched the man’s fingers to his heart with one hand and clawed at his robe with the other. He used the man as a solid foundation in the now-spinning room, deliriously grateful for his presence in the maelstrom of emotions that was intent upon devouring him whole.

He did not know whether mere seconds, minutes, or hours had passed before the panic subsided to a less dangerous level, and no longer did Loki feel as if he were drowning, dying. His heart was still attempting to punch a hole through his chest, but he didn’t need to struggle quite so hard to breathe. The pain in his head seemed like a far-away ache, a distant sensation that seemed muted, muffled like the ringing in his ears.

With the absence of panic came a deep, bone-crushing exhaustion, and Loki succumbed resignedly to the unconsciousness that pulled at the corners of his mind; he allowed it to sweep him away from the grief and pain and stress and cocoon him in a dark blanket of sleep.

* * *

Thor awoke feeling like his right hand had been trampled repeatedly by a furious horse, or perhaps ground between two boulders. He groaned, moving to pull it towards himself and cradle the throbbing appendage—only to find it was being held in a vice not his own.

He opened his bleary eyes, looking around the dark room with groggy confusion. He could not look to see what time of day—or night—it was, for the curtains separating the balcony were shut. The air smelled of old parchment and leather, the scent of ink and magic tickling his nose. He was in Loki’s chambers, but why? They’d ceased being lovers for nearly a century—or was it longer? He couldn’t be certain, as time seemed to hold less meaning to the god the more it passed.

_Loki would know_ , his mind supplied drowsily. _I should ask him_.

It stood to reason that, if he were in Loki’s chambers, Loki himself would be there as well. He didn’t trust Thor to be around his books and scrolls by himself, fearing he would somehow damage them. Thor had to roll his eyes at that, and in the corner of his vision he caught a glint of something gold in the dim room.

He squinted, turning his head as he studied the object. It was difficult to make out, and his eyes were still blurry with the vestiges of sleep, but he could faintly detect ornate golden spikes and a long, long handle...

Thor jolted, all hints of sleep gone as he came fully aware. The events of the past few days returned in a rush, and brought with them sorrow.

_Father is dead. Father is dead, I am mortal, and Loki is King._

Thor swallowed against the grief building inside him and attempted to sit upright. His actions were thwarted by a heavy weight resting over his sternum, effectively pinning his body to the bed. He looked down, and with eyes a little more adjusted to the dark he saw Loki half-sprawled atop him. His brother’s left hand held his bruised one in a steel grip, his head and the upper part of his chest pressing against Thor’s ribs.

The weight of the god kept Thor’s mortal form easily pinned, almost crushing him entirely. Thor felt, amid his buried grief, the faintest stirrings of amusement. Were he back to his normal form and power, _he_ would be the one to pin Loki to the bed, the trickster’s slight frame succumbing to his elder brother’s own weight though they were within an inch of each other in height.

Loki’s hair was in partial disarray, a wild parody of the slicked-back style he preferred. It fell like a curtain across Thor’s chest, the robe he wore having fallen open slightly to bare his skin. Loki’s ear pressed over his heart, his breath stuttering unevenly as he slumbered. His face was turned away from Thor, allowing the man no opportunity to read his expression.

Thor frowned, using his free hand to comb through Loki’s hair, allowing his fingertips to skitter across the god’s neck. He ran his forefinger along the patch of skin just above the place where neck joined shoulders, recalling with startling clarity the way his lips and teeth had caressed and bitten the skin many decades previously. Loki was extremely sensitive there, and Thor had often teased his brother out of slumber by playing with the pale skin in much the same way.

Yet Loki did not wake, even as Thor continued the motions for several minutes. Thor felt the slightest stirrings of unease in his gut, and he attempted to prop himself on his elbow to lean over his brother’s still form.

He cleared his throat, “Loki? Brother, will you awake?”

Thor began to wonder if he ought to try again, when the trickster began to rouse, stirring faintly, his shoulders twitching almost imperceptibly. Thor felt once more worried as he observed his brother’s slow crawl to awareness. Loki had ever been a light sleeper, and he made a habit of waking quickly and silently; his return to consciousness ought to be as swift as his reflexes. That he was having difficulty now concerned Thor, and he waited with some trepidation for Loki to rouse fully.

“Loki?” Thor pressed, feeling the body draped over his own tremble for a moment. He found he could breathe much more easily as Loki lifted his head, releasing Thor’s hand to lean on his elbows.

“How—” Loki croaked, clearing his throat as he whispered, “how long did I sleep?”

He was shivering, though Thor could detect no chill in the room. The thunderer sat up, carefully placing a hand on Loki’s shoulder.

“I know not,” he confessed. “I only recently awoke. Brother, are you... feeling well?”

The god made an aborted motion to shrug Thor’s hand away, giving up halfway through and simply leaning into the touch. It was a show of vulnerability that Thor had not seen in centuries, and he relished the moment just as much as he fretted over it.

He could see the conflicting desires flitting through his brother’s wild eyes, the need for closeness and the need to pull away being the most prominent. He could see Loki trying to mend his walls and masks and failing splendidly, and at the flash of grief Thor observed he felt his arms moving of their own accord—he wrapped the limbs around Loki’s form, pulling the god into a silent embrace.

After a moment of hesitation in which Thor was nearly certain Loki would decide to pull away, the trickster surprised him by looping his arms around Thor’s lower back, a strong grip that reminded Thor acutely of his own weakened state. His brother tucked his face into the junction of Thor’s shoulder, lips resting just beneath his ear as he released a sigh.

“It was my fault, you know,” Loki murmured against his skin, so softly that Thor felt the words more than he heard them. “Father’s death.”

Thor’s arms tightened around him, ordering firmly, “You mustn’t think that. It was no one’s doing—an accident.”

“Was it?” the god of chaos breathed. “He collapsed not an arm’s length away from me. Took his last breath on the treasury steps, like some old, feeble thing.”

They embraced each other so closely that Thor wasn’t sure whether the shudder he felt came from himself or Loki. “The treasury? Why was Father in the weapons vault? Why were _you—_ ”

“He lied to us both. At first, I couldn’t believe it. For a moment I was certain he would have told you— and through you the rest of Asgard. It would explain why...” Loki exhaled slowly, hot breath fanning against Thor’s neck. “Only Mother knew, and Heimdall. I doubt that even Laufey is aware... I suppose that makes me fortunate.”

_Laufey? Mother and Heimdall?_ “Brother, I do not understand.”

Loki laughed hollowly, a whispering chuckle that sent strange vibrations down Thor’s neck. “I’m sorry. I never thought I’d envy your ability to speak candidly, with little thought to the nonsense that comes out of your mouth. For all my centuries of practice weaving words, the truth seems to wilt on my tongue whenever I attempt to give voice... Perhaps I should not be surprised; I _am_ a Liesmith.”

Thor got the strangest feeling that Loki—intelligent, quick-witted, too clever by half Loki Silvertongue—was actually rambling. It unsettled Thor in ways that he did not care to reflect on.

“Loki, cease with your riddles and speak plainly,” he pleaded, punctuating his words with a squeeze around his brother’s shoulders.

He felt lips quirking in a bitter frown against his neck, heard a sigh escape them and a whisper so hushed that his ears strained to catch it.

“I am a frost giant, Thor.”

Thor couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe as the meaning of Loki’s hushed murmur became known. The thunderer was certain Loki felt him stiffen, and he could only squeeze the god tighter to prevent retreat. Thor could _feel_ the shame, the anger and the grief pouring from the god’s form in waves so strong he wondered if he might drown in the emotion.

“No...”

Loki chuckled, but the sound cut off with a choke before it could even really begin. They were both shaking, Thor was sure of it, vibrating with the force of the betrayal, the lie they hadn’t known they were living.

“A runt,” Loki hissed against his neck, his arms tightening around Thor’s waist in a steel vice that had the potential to leave large, arm-shaped bruises across his lower back. “Laufey’s first-born get, abandoned and left to die where I could not shame the giants with my weakness. Odin found and smuggled me into Asgard, where he could raise me as his puppet-king to place on the throne of Jötunheim when it suited him.”

Thor let loose a heavy exhale, pressing his stubbled jaw against Loki’s temple for some semblance of comfort—though he was not certain which one of them it was meant to aid.

“Oh,” he offered articulately. Loki snorted.

“I was furious,” the god admitted. “Furious at Laufey, for abandoning me. At Odin, for not leaving me to die. At Mother and Father, for lying to the both of us. And I was so _angry_ at myself, for never realizing...”

Thor felt his heart constrict at Loki’s words, spoken with such honesty and anger.

“It has ever been simple for me to change my form, Thor. Whether I appeared as a person, an animal, a shadow... I was constantly aware that underneath, behind every physical shift and alteration, I was still _myself_. Still Loki.” The god laughed bitterly. “And then I learn even that was a lie. That the god I always believed I was inside was not a god at all—but a monster.”

Shaking his head emphatically, Thor pulled back far enough for Loki’s head to fall from the thunderer’s shoulder. He felt his brother’s equally tight hold loosen to allow the action, and Thor knew that Loki was only humoring him, allowing himself to be maneuvered like a puppet when in reality he would have little trouble keeping Thor where he was. If it came to a show of strength, Thor would lose miserably in this form, but he pushed that knowledge from his mind as he looked his brother firmly in the eyes with one hand warm on his neck.

“You are _not_ a monster, Loki,” Thor growled with such conviction that his voice roughened. “You are my _brother_ and my friend. It matters little who sired you—we have forged bonds that not even blood ties can unbind. Tell me, can monsters love, Loki? Can they be loved? Surely then you are not a monster, for I hold more love for you than any other. I have never been so eloquent or versed with words as you, but there is no doubt in my mind that what I speak is the truth.”

Loki was very still for a moment, as if he were chiseled from stone. His wild green eyes were unreadable and his shoulders tense. Thor found himself holding his breath, suddenly fearful that he had said the incorrect thing. He rushed to continue spouting desperate assurances.

“Besides,” he continued, smiling tightly. “You cannot possibly be a proper frost giant, for you enjoy fire _far_ too much.”

It was as if those words broke a dam, for his brother abruptly sighed, shutting his eyes with a long groan. “You damnably endearing _fool_...”

Thor’s chest rumbled with a chuckle, relieved and exultant all at once. His thumb brushed the pale skin of Loki’s neck where his hand rested, and he found himself quietly repeating the words that had been thrown at him in jest the day of his coronation.

“Give us a kiss?” he pleaded gently. “My King.”

Loki obliged.

* * *

The funeral pyre was situated atop the deck of the golden ship, a gilded monument built to display with perfect clarity the silver-haired form laying in its center. The light of the stars danced across the rippling water, the gentle roll of the waves rocking the shining boat like a cradle underneath the night sky.

A soft lament was being sung, harmonic and sorrowful. It echoed with the voice of thousands, Asgard’s people come to pay one last tribute to their beloved one-eyed ruler. In each hand was a softly glowing light, illuminating the grief of the gathered gods as they surrounded the royal family in an arc.

Kind, gentle Frigga was crying—silent tears slipping down her fair cheeks before falling to the ground. She stood straight and proud, every inch a Queen even as she mourned her husband, her eyes never leaving the pyre before her.

Clad in ceremonial armor, Thor and Loki flanked their mother on either side, each with a hand on her shoulders as they offered silent comfort. Loki held Gungnir in his other hand, and with his back to the crowd there was no one to witness the grief and guilt glistening in his eyes. He gazed straight ahead, unable to look away from the still form lying in the boat. He mourned for the man that rescued him from death, raised him and gave him the opportunity to live not as a monster, but as a god.

Thor could not look at all, his head bowed while he shut his eyes tightly against the tears. He gritted his teeth against the sting of remorse, hating that his last words to his father had been so cruel. Regret filled him to the brim, and try as he might he couldn’t fight against it.

Frigga lifted her hand to squeeze Loki’s forearm, a silent signal for her son to begin. She felt the shudder beneath her fingers before her son stepped forward and raised his palm towards the pyre. The god of fire needed to speak no words to call forth the burning magic to his hand, though choking grief made the flames flicker for a moment. The song continued, but it was a muted hum over the roaring in his ears.

He sent a shower of fire towards the boat, willing the flames to catch the pyre holding Odin’s body aloft. The magic did as he bid, the crackle of embers and the flickering light of the flame that reflected in the water taunted him. The ship was released and left to the mercy of the current.

The strong pull of the waves drew the boat away from the shore, inching towards the edge of the golden realm and the cosmos beneath. Loki felt frozen, dazed and dreaming as he watched the boat sail closer to the edge, his father’s body burning on the pyre until the entire structure fell from view. The pang that hit his heart once the ship dropped winded him completely, his fingers clutching Gungnir in a death vice as the song ended.

Gentle hands—Frigga’s—touched his shoulders, catching his attention. He turned, and his eyes widened as the masses of Asgard began to kneel.

_What...?_

Thor was the one who started it—red cape billowing as he lowered himself on one knee, fist pressed against his armor, just over his heart. Frigga gave Loki a watery smile, following her eldest son’s lead.

As if a spell had been broken, the Æsir got to their knees, lowering their heads with a deference that baffled and frightened Loki in equal measure. He felt he might truly collapse in shock when the oaths were spoken, the Old Tongue rolling from a hundred thousand different tongues as Thor led the binding chant. Dumbfounded, Loki could only grip Gungnir in a white-knuckled vice while his shoulders hunched beneath his armor, as if the voices were a physical weight pressing down upon him.

As silence, blessed silence, reigned and lightning broke through the skies—Mjölnir now gripped in Thor’s free hand _—_ it was all Loki could do to recite his own oaths, to ensure his silver tongue did not betray him and cause his voice to falter. The magic of his oaths slithered through his veins, writhing under his skin in ways Loki did not care to think about too deeply, and the horrible, wonderful _pleasure and pain and agony, oh,_ as the ancient power of the Allfather, the Odinforce, found a new host in him. It joined seamlessly with his seiðr, and he was powerless to stop it.

He gained a hyper-awareness alongside the pressing, persistent ache of exhaustion. It was chaos and balance and utterly foreign to him, and even as he attempted to regain control over his senses one thought remained very clear to him: Thor had ceded his claim to the throne by bowing to him, and in doing so...

_...I’m the Allfather. I am the damned Allfather. Oh, I am going to_ kill _Thor after this is over._


End file.
